


Allemande

by Lucyemers



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Dancing, Drunk Dancing, First Kiss, Historical Inaccuracy, Implied/Referenced Torture, In Vino Veritas, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:48:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21843202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucyemers/pseuds/Lucyemers
Summary: A Christmas party at Mount Vernon finds Ben and Caleb in the cups and in their feelings.
Relationships: Caleb Brewster/Benjamin Tallmadge
Comments: 11
Kudos: 35
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Allemande

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Impala_Chick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impala_Chick/gifts).



> I have not written in this fandom before and I'm so glad I had a reason (and a deadline!) to do so.
> 
> I'm also pinch hitting for Yuletide so had very little time for historical research so forgive me any errors.

Caleb pauses beside the fire, cradling a mug of ale. To say he feels out of place at a Mount Vernon Christmas is an understatement. It can’t hold a candle to a small Setauket Christmas. And speaking of candles, there’s just too many of them. Pretty, yes, but not at all as his Christmases had been, dark, likely running low on lamp oil, huddled round the fire, his uncle singing a low hymn, while the embers burned low. They had been Christmases of want, he realized now, but amidst all the chatter, brightness and trilling laughter, he thinks he might just prefer it. But he had to admit: the food! The wine! And the fragrant bowl of spiced rum punch, poised before him--well he couldn’t complain about that. 

Washington claps him on the shoulder saying, “Let’s heat this Yuletide libation, Mr. Brewster!” It takes him a moment to realize what Washington means, but then he notices him ceremonially gesturing to the red hot poker, heating in the fireplace for this very moment. It has been a tradition he had loved at Anna’s family’s as a child. Though they didn’t have a punch bowl, nor any punch, they had ale in small tankards. Anna’s father would make the children squeal in delight when he plunged the fire poker into the ale in each cup and it bubbled and hissed and heated. 

But looking into the fire now he feels his chest throb in remembrance. He feels his mug begin to shake and his breath begin to catch, and he starts to insistently remind himself of just where he is. He hopes the smile he is forcing is convincing, but as Washington is taking his mug to free Caleb’s hands for the task he pauses, glancing down and taking in how they shake. He sees concern in Washington’s eyes but not realization and then, mercifully, he hears,

“Surely, you’ll let me do the honors, Sir”, and Ben is by his side, turning Caleb away from the fire and saying, “Mr. Brewster won’t want to miss the chance at some of the newly uncorked rum in the parlor”, he squeezes Caleb’s shoulder in affection and meets his eyes just briefly, checking in, “Christ Benny, I’m not some wilting daisy” is right at tip of his tongue, but his knees are nearly buckling in relief, so he replies heartily with, “Aye, you’re right about that!” Ben is offering an escape. So he takes it. 

Later, after the punch is served and the candles are dripping low, Ben finds him seated in a corner, several more drinks along, only just beginning to feel warm and slightly flushed. He sees the rosey tinge to Ben’s cheeks and realises he’s had a touch more to drink than his usual restrained self as well, but then again it takes very little to put Tall Boy in his cups. Ben sits, a hand soft on Caleb’s back as he settles beside him.

“He didn’t mean anything by it, Washington. He didn’t remember.” 

Caleb takes a very long pull on the aforementioned very good rum.

“Course he doesn’t.” He thinks it will come out harsh, bitter, but it doesn’t he’s only weary, weary of nice clothes and being helped to put on nice clothes by other people, of being on sure footing, if he’s totally honest. His boat is docked in the Potomac on the edge of the property and most nights he finds it brutal sleeping in so large a bed on such steady ground. But Ben invited him. And God, he thinks tipsily to himself, it’s worth it. His face starts to feel hot with the rum and the thoughts, and he must be getting a bit lost in them both because he hasn’t heard the conversation taking place around him but he does feel the absence of Ben’s hand on his shoulder. 

“Do sing, Major Tallmadge! I’ve been told you’ve a great gift for it.” 

Ben is blushing but beaming and he’s not one to turn Martha Washington down. He hands his mug of ale off to Caleb and crosses to the piano, conferring with the lady who has taken it upon herself to accompany him. And he begins, 

“In the bleak midwinter,  
Frosty wind made moan,”

Caleb remembers this, how pure and clear Ben’s voice is. He used to dread church, couldn’t bear to sit still, thought the walls were dreadful plain compared to the icons and prayer beads his uncle would bring out for saint’s days and teaching him Hail Marys and prayers from the old church that he wouldn’t dare breath in their austere Setauket church. The only thing he could stand about the whole business was to sit beside Ben so he could hear him sing the hymns. His voice reminds him, to this day, of snow that nobody’s trampled through yet. He closes his eyes for just a moment and when he opens them he’s met with those clear blue eyes as Ben continues, 

“What can I give him? poor as I am,  
If I were a shepherd, I would give a lamb,  
If I were a wise man, I would do my part,  
What can I give him? I will give my heart.”

He finishes the last, long note and all assembled give their enthusiastic but stayed applause-- too tepid a response for such a voice in Caleb’s opinion, but Ben doesn’t seem to notice, so he acquires Ben another full pint of ale to show his admiration.

Many pints of ale later, after the ladies have retired and when the lines for the chamber pots are long, they stumble outside to relieve themselves. Ben is as far drunk as Caleb has ever seen him this side of twenty-five. He can barely keep his balance as he does up his buttons. 

“Easy there” he says gently teasing, “I’m surprised you managed to miss your boots.”

Ben scoffs, stumbles off through the snow, hums softly (he can hear the notes conjuring “Bleak Midwinter” once more) and Caleb follows. The snow reflects the moonlight and they are thankfully free of any need of a candle. It is not particularly deep but as they walk closer to the water there are hidden patches of ice. Caleb notices Ben start to slip before Ben even realizes and by the time he’s even attempting to right his balance, Caleb is already there, a hand behind Ben’s back and, oddly, Ben is reaching around and taking Caleb’s hand. It’s such an awkward stance, though not unwelcome at all, he thinks, as he squeezes Ben’s freezing hand.

“We gonna do the allemande?” Caleb jokes. 

Ben groans dramatically.

“You’ve no idea how many times I pleaded a headache to avoid that at Yale.” 

Caleb guffaws, all the while holding Ben’s still freezing hand in his own. Ben doesn’t pull away, and he doesn’t say a word about it, and Caleb stops for a beat and thinks simply, “alright”, before he continues on, deciding to act as if this is the most normal exchange, as if they (he can nearly feel his eyes twinkle as he thinks it) take each other’s hands every day. 

“You mean to tell me that the celebrated Major Tallmadge of the Light Dragoons, Major of the Continental Army and Head of General Washington’s Intelligence has never A-La-manded” he punches out each syllable comically “before?” He grins mischievously, “Or are ya speaking figuratively there, Tall Boy? Is allemande what they are calling it these days?”

This wins him a blush but also a flash of sadness and a warning “Caleb--” so he presses on and doesn’t linger on that one. 

“Well never fear Benny Boy, because I have allemanded many, many times and I’m gonna show you how. You should know, it's a little more different on a boat.” Ben looks at him, dumbfounded. 

“But we aren’t on a boat.”

“We are not”, Caleb confirms, “but we do have a good bit of ice right here” and before Benjamin can ask questions, Caleb swings Ben out by the hand in a wide arc, using all the force of the motion and the slickness of the ice to send him sliding right back into his arms. 

Ben lets out a single whoop of laughter before asking, “What does my nearly breaking my neck have to do with dancing on a boat?” He’s going for serious and skeptical in his tone but his smile is cracking through; Caleb can see it clearly. Maybe because the moon is so bright, maybe because Ben’s face is so very close. 

“Well,” Caleb explains, “if you are dancing on a whaleboat with a lady of ill repute” there’s a certain irony to using a much politer phrase than he otherwise would, before swinging Ben around again and grabbing hold of whatever bit of him he can grasp to keep them from falling on the ice--in this case it’s his arse. 

Ben’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “Then sometimes in a rough gale”, Caleb continues, “you have to hold her tight.” They stand still, panting slightly from the effort and the cold. 

“Somehow I think this is quite different from the allemande”, Ben replies, eyes soft with just a bit of wonder.

“Aye, Benny Boy”, Caleb whispers. “But this is better.”

Ben is close enough that Caleb can smell the spruce ale on his breath, and then Ben leans closer still and does the thing that Caleb never knew he always wanted and he can taste the sprue ale on his lips too. 

“Easy there, Ben”, Caleb breathes, aching with longing as he says, “You’re still drunk. How’re ya gonna feel about this in the morning?

“I don’t know.” Ben replies, voice barely audible, “Come seek me out, as soon as you wake, and ask me.”  
ny

**Author's Note:**

> I used this video as visual inspiration for the allemande
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BO9S9F5mY04


End file.
